“He just sat down at Ses Oliveres. It’s a restaurant—”
Kross cut her off. “I know where it is.”
“He’s seated on the terrace with a woman. She’s wearing a sun hat, so we haven’t been able to identify her.”
“Understood. I’ll provide overwatch. Let your men know. I’ll be in position in about fifteen minutes. I’ll let you know when I’m set.”
“Do that,” Verena said. “I won’t send the teams in until you have eyes on the target.”
Kross ended the call, looked at his cup, then sighed. The yogurt had completely melted at the bottom of the cup. He shrugged, then raised the cup to his lips, drinking its contents as if it was a milkshake. He stood up, picked up his backpack, and started toward the marina.
As he moved through the crowd, a face flicked in his mind.Mia.
It started with a memory of her laugh. She had the kind of laugh that lingered in a man’s mind for a long time. Then came the curve of her hips and the warmth of her naked body pressed against him.
His morning with her had been ... enjoyable. Too enjoyable, maybe? He knew he shouldn’t have invited her to his suite, but he had started to feel lonely over the last year or so. He had had a lot of opportunities to be with someone since he had started taking contractual work, but operational security had always taken precedence over his desires.
Until last night.
What was it about Mia that had pulled him in so deeply? It wasn’t just her looks and her wild energy in bed. He knew that. It was harder to define than that. Maybe it was the way she seemed so at ease with the world, like nothing bothered her?
Carefree.
Or was it how she’d straddled him without a word that morning, half asleep and warm, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He shivered at the memory. It had been as if she had belonged there, and it had driven him crazy. Then, when they were done, she had traced lazy circles on his chest with her fingers. Kross absentmindedly passedhis tongue over his lips as he remembered the taste of cinnamon and espresso on hers when he had kissed her goodbye a few hours ago.
Maybe that’s it. With her, things feel simple. And real.
For a few precious hours, she had made him forget the violence, the blood, the lies, and the weight of everything he’d done. She had given him silence in all the noise. And he was starting to need that more than he was ready to admit.
I’m getting too old for this shit. I really am.
Across the marina, a large yacht let out a deep, resonant blast from its horn that startled him and sent a flock of seagulls into the air. Kross’s head snapped toward the sound, his instincts overriding the memory of Mia.
What the hell’s wrong with me?
Kross forced Mia out of his mind. He hadn’t expected to think of her again so soon, and so vividly.
You’re slipping, Max. Get your head in the game. Complete this op, then reassess your priorities.
The concrete dock he was now walking on stretched into the bay like a fat finger. It was lined with sailboats and yachts of different sizes. Kross walked its length, his eyes scanning the promenade and Ses Oliveres’s terrace in the distance. From the end of the dock, he had a clear view of the restaurant. The position where he stood was perfect, but it was too exposed with too many people moving in and out. He needed somewhere he could work from.
Somewhere quiet, with good concealment. And with a stable shooting platform.
Kross examined the boats docked nearby, his eyes stopping on a sixty-foot sloop-rigged sailboat. It had a white fiberglass hull, teak decking, and a blue canvas dodger. The boat was past its prime, but it had been well kept. The lines were coiled neatly, the fenders hung in the right places, but more importantly, the companionway hatch was of an older design.
Kross knew the type. He was confident he could pick the lock in under ninety seconds. He stepped onto the sailboat as if he owned it. No one nearby paid him much attention. He knelt by the cabin door, slipped a thin pick and tension wrench from a side pocket of his backpack, and inserted them into the lock. He applied light pressure with the wrench, feeling the subtle resistance of the pins. Less than thirty seconds later, the lock clicked open with a satisfying snap. Kross slid the door open and stepped below deck, closing and then locking the door behind him.
The cabin was dark, and a faint scent of varnish and burnt coffee hung in the air. A midsize galley with a double sink and stovetop was on one side, opposite a built-in bench and a large fold-down table. Sunlight filtered through the portholes, casting shafts of light across the floorboards and catching dust particles in the air. Kross quickly cleared the interior of the boat, sneezing once thanks to a swirl of dust motes he had kicked up with his movement. He sniffed, wiped his nose with the back of his hand, then continued to check for cameras or any sort of electronic surveillance. Not finding any, he dropped to one knee by a porthole and looked out. From this position, he had a direct line of sight to the Ses Oliveres terrace and a partial view of the promenade.
Perfect.
Kross unzipped his backpack and began to assemble his rifle, a Remington Defense Concealable Sniper Rifle—or CSR. The rifle was built for operations just like this one. Optimized for subsonic ammunition, it featured a fourteen-inch barrel, a fully adjustable stock, and a suppressor. The entire rifle broke down into three parts, which made it ideal for covert carry in a standard backpack. Once he had assembled the rifle, he retrieved two ten-round magazines from his backpack’s side pouch. He inserted one into the magazine well and set the other within easy reach. Kross removed the daytime scope that was already attached and replaced it with one that was optimized for low-light conditions. If he had to make a shot after sunset, he’d be ready.
He pulled out his phone and sent a brief text to Verena to let her know he was in position. He then settled in behind the rifle, its stocktucked tight into his shoulder. He adjusted the magnification, then checked the rooftops, the balconies, and the moored yachts across the bay, looking for any elevated vantage that might conceal a spotter or a second sniper.
The last thing he wanted was for Verena’s men to walk into an ambush. Not seeing anything that represented a direct or immediate threat, he began to scan each table with methodical precision, his finger resting along the trigger guard. Kross noted the layout of the terrace as the waitstaff moved around the tables.
And there he is . . .
